Persecutory Delusions
by entropic order
Summary: Skittery isn't crazy. He's just really, really observant. Warnings: WIP. Language. Insanity. Conspiracies. Slash: background!Blush and future Snittery.
1. That Crazy Kid Who Talks to Trees

**Disclaimer: Not mine.**

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**Persecutory Delusions**

_Chapter 1: That Crazy Kid Who Talks to Trees_

Skittery sees the shadow move, and he knows that the others were wrong. 

In the outskirts of the city, there is a place where poison clouds the sky. There, the entire world is a flat, steely gray that seems simultaneously sterilized and coated in grime. Box-like factories rise up into the air, their utilitarian forms casting jagged shadows over monstrous piles of gravel. The smell of burning rubber hangs heavy in the atmosphere.

That place is where Skittery stands now. He is concealed behind one of the gravel heaps, inhaling the toxic air in short, nervous gasps. _This _is why he's been waiting around the factory district for almost an hour now. He knew he was right. He _knew _it.

When he moved to this town a month ago, he had no idea that They were here. He thought it was just your average major city, complete with decaying urban landscape and sugary sweet suburbs.

He was bored at first, had too much time on his hands. Now, he's glad of the free time. It makes it easier to watch Them.

At the base of the factory wall, the sweeping shade cast by the building camouflages the shadow-creature, and as the sun sets the sky progresses toward blue-black night. Seeing the shadow is now almost impossible. Skittery can barely make out how tall it is, let alone how it's shaped or what it's doing.

Skittery cannot decide whether or not to get closer to the shadow. If he goes, he may be able to see it better, maybe find out why it would be lingering at a factory like this. But he doesn't know enough about Them yet for it to be safe. What if They're more dangerous than he thought?

As he frowns into the darkness he thinks that maybe he can see the creature move back and forth, a little like it's dancing. He wonders why on earth it would be dancing. It's not exactly a ballerina, after all.

Another second and Skittery has waited too long. The shadow-creature has stopped moving. Whatever was there is gone.

Damn it. He should have tried.

Turning his back on the factory, Skittery starts walking. He is going to do his homework like the good little suburbanite he is.

When he goes to school the next day, Skittery has not forgotten the creature. He pays even less attention in class than usual, instead drawing shadowy faces in the margins of his papers. His teachers try to get his attention, but it is futile. Even when they threaten him with detention, Skittery does not stop pondering the strange creatures he has seen.

When lunch comes, he ignores his friends in favor of contemplating Their possible motives. His friends do not like this very much, and proceed to throw random, theoretically edible items at his head. The second time someone throws what is probably a French fry (it's hard to tell, since it's cafeteria food) at him without him noticing, it is apparently the last straw for his companions. Skittery is shaken out of his musing by the sudden appearance of a hand in front of his face.

His eyes follow the hand to an arm, the arm to a shoulder, the shoulder to a neck, the neck to a face, and suddenly find themselves looking at Race.

"You're still alive, right?" Race's face is comically serious as he waves his hand in front of Skittery's eyes.

"Yeah, I just… I'm fine," Skittery says. Farther down the table, Jack stops doodling in the ketchup on his tray long enough to frown at Skittery.

"Come on, Skitts, don't do this again," he says, "No one is after you, alright?"

Skittery sighs a little and slides down in his seat. Jack shakes his head.

"I thought you were over it. It's not the FBI, or the CIA, or whatever else you've come up with this time. It's _just your imagination_," he says.

"Aw, don't be so glum just 'cause the government's not stalking you," Race says, smiling and sitting down again, "They're probably just too busy with the aliens and the evil Satan-worshippers."

"Never said anything about aliens," Skittery mutters. Race rolls his eyes and turns away.

After an inordinate amount of time spent brooding at his lunch tray, Skittery thinks he has successfully escaped the conversation. Then, he notices that Blink is staring at him from where he's slouching against his chair with one arm around Mush's shoulders.

"What?" Skittery asks.

"…nothing," Blink says. He seems confused. It looks painful. Skittery wonders how long it will take before Blink gives up and just asks whatever it is he's so stumped by.

"What are they?" Under five seconds, it would appear.

Skittery sighs again. He's not good at explaining this.

"They're kind of like ghosts," he says, "Except they're solid. They look like shadows, and they stay near shadows so they can hide easier. Also," he pauses, not wanting to sound too crazy, "Also, they can walk through walls."

"So they're like that girl?"

"Uh… what?"

"You know! That girl from X-Men! Who goes through the walls!"

"Oh. I… guess so."

"Yeah."

"But I don't think they're girls. Or guys either, really. I think they're kind of… outside that."

"Skitts?"

"Yeah?"

"You're weird." Blink shakes his head ruefully. Beside him, Mush frowns and makes a little confused noise. Blink glances down at him.

"What?"

Mush looks at him. "Hmm? Oh. It's nothing, I just thought… but it's nothing."

Blink smiles and sort-of-hugs him. "Whatever you say."

They're so obvious Skittery wonders why no one's tried to beat them up yet. It's been like this for weeks, and you'd think more people would have realized by now.

Not that their group of friends is that bright. After all, they've never believed Skittery about the creatures. And if they don't realize that's true, they're not going to notice _anything_. He thinks that maybe Snitch believes him, but Snitch doesn't go to their school. Not anymore, at least.

The disbelief doesn't annoy Skittery as much as you'd think. He's used to it, after all this time. But it does make him worry a little. If his friends don't take notice Them soon, Skittery has no idea what will befall them. When there are things like Them around, there's no telling what will happen.

He's going to the factory again later. He has to find Them.

Skittery has known about Them for a while now. He's getting to be familiar with Their habits. He thinks that eventually he's going to try looking them up online, because you can find almost _anything _on the internet. He doubts that it will work, though. They seem to have singled him out, for some reason he's not sure of. Skittery doesn't think anyone else can actually see Them.

He guesses they just don't know what to look for.

Skittery isn't crazy, really he isn't. He's just more observant than everyone else, and he has had the bad luck to be caught up in the middle of a conspiracy.

On the bus the next day, Skittery tries to figure out whether or not he's insane.

The bus is a good place to think because there are so many distractions. The shouts of the other passengers and the bumps of the bus over pot-holes and the odor of exhaust mingle into a monotony that allows Skittery's thoughts free reign. Sometimes he even feels himself drifting into something very much like a trance.

He thinks the exhaust may have something to do with that.

In any case, Skittery spends a good deal of every morning staring out the window and thinking. A lot of the time he thinks about everything, nothing, and the meaning of life, but sometimes something useful comes out of it, and those are the times Skittery looks forward to.

He is certain, now, that the shadow-creatures have been following him. Any time he goes downtown, they're there. They haven't ventured into the suburbs yet, for which he's glad.

He has to figure out what they want before they do that. If he doesn't, he is certain the outcome will not be good. Not for him or them.

Outside the window, manicured lawns of an unnatural green overpower everything else and make the outdoors an expanse of chemically-treated perfection. Shade from the exquisitely shaped young trees slithers lightly across the grass, and the dark shadow—

The shadow.

Oh God. They're here.

He knew this would happen eventually. He just hoped it wouldn't be so soon.

Skittery presses his forehead against the window's glass, staring down toward the street corner. There, under a delicate sycamore, loiters one of Them. It hunches over so that though it is a foot taller than any human, it seems to be only around six feet tall. It is so dark it is almost unbearable: darker than midnight, darker than a tyrant's heart, impossibly and abhorrently dark.

The bus speeds toward it, and Skittery half expects that the creature will simply stay planted in place and watch it go by. Then, as they pass, the shadow moves. In a flash it begins to trail the bus, hanging so close behind as to almost touch the bright yellow paint. The place where its face should be presses ominously up against the back window right where block letters spell out, "EMERGENCY EXIT."

Skittery is the only one who has noticed it.

With a frantic effort, Skittery manages to tear his eyes away from the bus's pursuer. Before he knows what he is about to do, he cries.

"Stop!" he shouts to the bus driver, "Stop! I have to get off! Let me off!"

The desperation in his voice is astounding even to him, and the driver can't help but pull over. He protests all the while, but when Skittery dashes past him, he merely stares in disbelief.

Skittery doesn't notice. He is completely focused on the creature. His legs seem to have bypassed his brain and are running of their own accord. He is not thinking, cannot think. It's too important. Too immediate. He _must _get to that creature.

Because this time, it's different. Every other time he's seen Them, They've been in the city, and They have stayed passive and hidden. Now They're encroaching on Skittery's land, and he's not going to let Them take hold. Not when there are people here who do not, _cannot_ know what They are.

Outside the bus, Skittery ignores the incredulous stares of his fellow students and finally comes to a halt. The creature is less than ten feet ahead of him. It too has stopped. Now, it is so still that it seems inanimate.

Skittery looks at it.

It looks at Skittery.

In that one moment, Skittery can see the creature clearer than he has ever seen one of Them before.

He sees its misshapen form, the way it curves in ways that can't be possible. He sees the place its face should be, and the light-absorbing circle of darkness that is there instead. And he sees the aggressive stretching of its crooked finger toward him as a voice that comes from everywhere and nowhere slices into Skittery's mind.

"_Skittery,_"It growls, "_You are ours…_"

He turns and runs back onto the bus.

The bus is exponentially quieter than it has ever been before. It seems that Skittery has shocked them into silence with his strange display. The only sounds are the low whispers about That Crazy Kid Who Talks to Trees. As the bus begins to rumble toward the school once more, Skittery looks back outside.

The shadow is gone.


	2. You are the Quarry

**Disclaimer: Not mine. Also, the title is the name of a song by Morrissey. I do not _think _this violates ffn's new lyrics rule, but if it does, do me a favor and _tell _me instead of just clicking the report button? Thanks.**

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**Persecutory Delusions  
**_Chapter 2: You are the Quarry_

When he goes to sleep that night, Skittery dreams.

_He is outdoors, in the school parking lot. The summer sun beats down on the asphalt with more force than should be possible anywhere other than the Sahara. There are no cars here and for some reason the usually busy street that runs by the school is now just as empty as the parking lot. _

_Standing there, enveloped by silence, he is not alone. Skittery cannot see anyone else, but he knows this undeniably. _

_Suddenly, he hears a whisper from somewhere behind his left shoulder. _

"_Skittery…" _

_He turns around and sees nothing but more asphalt stretching outward in an endless plain. His school has disappeared, and the only thing that's left is the blacktop. All life has been scorched or poisoned or chased away, he does not know which. The sun shines ever hotter, and the voice comes again, this time from the other side._

"_Skittery." It is stronger, closer, more insistent. Skittery turns. He is still the only visible form of life on the monstrous expanse._

_Then, as Skittery stares around wonderingly, all hell breaks loose._

_The blacktop begins to twist and contort, writhing and churning and breaking in waves like the sea in a gale. They rise above him, whipping toward him violently and only narrowly missing causing him death or fatal injury. _

_The world is beginning to fall apart. The sky darkens, and Skittery cannot tell if the asphalt-waves are blocking the sun or if a storm is brewing. A strong wind whistles about him, and he swears he can he screams._

_Above it all, the voice._

"Alexander!_" _

_For some reason, Skittery does not wonder how it knows his name. All that matters is where it's coming from. He whirls around, searching for the voice's source, when all of a sudden, everything snaps back into place and the world is calm again. _

_The asphalt drifts back down to its normal inanimacy, and the sun brightens once more. The wind dies down and the screams fade with it. _

_Skittery breathes deeply, inhaling the stillness. Then movement begins again, but this time in a totally different and not unwelcome way._

_A pair of arms comes to rest around Skittery's neck and a body presses against his back. He leans into the person behind him. Whoever it is is familiar somehow, though he can't quite think why. All he can tell is that the someone is human, male, and only a little taller than Skittery._

"_It's okay," the person behind him says, "I'm here now. I won't let anything happen to you, Skitts." _

_The person's hands whisper lightly over Skittery's chest, and his mind begins to mirror the earlier chaos as his breaths grow shallow. He can no longer think straight. He can only feel. The person speaks again, his voice low and soothing._

"_I love you," he murmurs, and everything changes._

_The world goes cold as the sun disappears again. The arms around Skittery become frozen shadows ending in cruel claws. And a new voice sounds, contrasting sharply with his rescuer's. This one is growling and threatening and omnipresent._

_It is the same voice Skittery heard outside the bus yesterday._

"You are ours!_" The claws pierce his chest and skewer his heart._

Skittery awakes suddenly, but he does not bolt upright, or scream, or cry out in despair. He simply lies there, face pushed into his pillow, body clammy with sweat. He tries to breath, to gain control of himself.

It was only a dream. He's still alive. The creatures aren't here. He is fine. He is not in danger. At least, not any more than usual.

Skittery is relatively certain that stress produced the dream. He should have known he'd have nightmares about Them eventually.

Still, that doesn't explain where that one part, the one calm, beautiful part came from. That person… had been so familiar. And he had to have known him, because only Skittery's close friends ever call him Skitts. But which of them could it have been? None of them believe him, and none of them would even try to protect him from the creatures.

And _none _of them feel That Way about him. Skittery is sure of that.

He sighs and glances at the digital clock beside his bed. In glowing green block letters it tells him that it is 4:30 a.m.

An hour until sunrise and nothing for him to do.

The prospect of lying in the dark and staring at the ceiling for an entire hour frightens Skittery a lot more than any of the contents of his dream.

He decides to go downstairs and make coffee. After all, if he's going to be awake, he may as well be _all _the way awake.

Around ten minutes later, Skittery sits cross-legged on the couch in his living room. He has not bothered to turn on the lights, but the floral print on the couch's upholstery is just visible by the flickering light cast by the TV. Skittery isn't actually sure what he's watching. It's mostly just for background noise.

He's not thinking, either. It's far too early in the morning to think. Mostly, he's waiting. Waiting for the sun to rise. Waiting for his family to wake up.

Waiting until he has the courage to confront Them.

As he sips his coffee, Skittery fiddles with the remote. Channels flash past his eyes on the screen, each one full of the same bright lights and blinding smiles. It's pretty much all infomercials at this time of day, but occasionally he sees a news program or some ancient sitcom. Every so often, Skittery can hear a car go by outside.

It's peaceful. He feels like he doesn't have to think or to worry. He can forget about Them for a while, can forget about whether or not he's crazy and what his friends will think if he is. He can forget about who the boy in his dream was. He can just listen, and watch, and wait.

A few hours later, his mom trudges down the stairs. When he hears her enter the room, he says quietly, "I made coffee."

She nods and goes into the kitchen.

When she gets back, she's considerably more talkative.

"How long have you been up?" She asks, sitting down next to him.

"Around two hours," he says.

"Nightmare."

"Yeah."

"And you don't want to talk about it."

"No."

She sighs. "I wish you'd talk to me more, Alex—"

"Please don't call me that."

"_Skittery_. You know you can talk to me, right? I'm not pushing you away?"

Skittery glances at her, but looks away again quickly. "Of course."

They fall silent for a while, and the newscasters on TV are the only sound. Finally Skittery's mom says, "Thanks for making coffee."

Skittery smiles, and his mom smiles with him. Together, they watch the news.

It is Saturday, so the day begins slowly. Almost four hours after Skittery's mom comes downstairs, his sister emerges from her bedroom. It is at this point that Skittery decides he does not want to spend the day anywhere _near_ his family.

He thinks he will go downtown to the factory. He may as well do something productive.

When Skittery goes downtown, he walks. This is mostly because he has no car, but also because he likes the exercise, and the way he is isolated from the drivers on the road and yet still part of everything.

His family lives on the very edge of the suburbs, closer to downtown than most of the other people he knows. It is not that long a walk, so Skittery is surrounded by skyscrapers within fifteen minutes.

His city, downtown, is not nearly as crowded as the _really _big cities like New York, but it can certainly hold it's own. The difficulty of walking quickly amidst the crowds that populate downtown far outweighs the benefit, so Skittery slows down considerably as soon as he leaves suburbia.

As he walks, he entertains himself by watching people. He finds that if you don't pay attention, all of their faces can blend into one. He tries not to let that happen. He knows what it feels like to be forgotten, to be left behind. So he pays attention to each stranger's face.

And then, all of a sudden, Skittery becomes very, very scared.

Down the street from him, there is a patch of something that Does Not Belong. There is a lone figure of pitch black amidst the sea of colors.

It is one of Them. _Again_.

And it is not just standing there. It is coming toward him, and very rapidly at that.

Skittery's eyes dart through the queue, desperately searching for an escape. The creature is coming nearer, nearer, nearer. He has to get away. _Now_. The only way he can see is to cross the street, because the crowd of people is too tight for him to move in any other direction. He's not sure which would be more dangerous: crossing against traffic on the busiest street in the city, or being caught by the shadow-creature.

He decides to take his chances with traffic. He dashes into the road. He squeezes his eyes shut tightly and prays.

For awhile, sounds make up his entire world. He can hear screeching tires, car horns, bystanders screaming. He doesn't stop, not even when he feels a car brush by him less than a foot away, because the clearest sound of all is that terrible voice.

"_Come to us, come with us,_" it chants as he runs, "_Dance our dance! Sing our song! You are ours, forever and ever, world without end!_"

As he tears through the city, he is certain he can sense the creature at his back. The voice is joined by others like it, and they sing their twisted mockery of a hymn, playing the hounds to his fox. Still he does not open his eyes.

The world is coming apart at the seams. It whirls around him like the blacktop in his dream, and he can't think, can't stop, can't _breathe_—

And suddenly he runs smack into what he assumes is a person.

At the moment of impact, Skittery stumbles backwards, catches one foot against the other one and topples over, landing at the feet of the poor soul he's inadvertently assaulted. His eyes pop open and he looks behind him. To his surprise, he is no longer being followed. The shadow is gone and the voices are silent.

Only when he's certain that he's no longer the shadow-creature's quarry does Skittery look up to apologize.

He finds himself staring at Mush and Blink.

It was Mush he ran into, and it is Mush who extends a hand to help him up. All sorts of things to say run through his head—everything from "I'm so sorry" to "Watch where you're going"—but the only thing he seems to be able to do is to gape at his two friends.

"You alright?" Mush asks as Skittery dusts himself off. Skittery nods.

"You're in a hurry," Blink remarks.

"Yeah. Yeah, I am."

"What happened? You looked like you'd seen a ghost."

"I… sort of did." Skittery sighs resignedly and prepares to be called crazy. "Remember those things I told you about? They were chasing me."

Blink's face takes on a concerned expression that makes Skittery feel sick. He wouldn't mind as much if it weren't so damn _sincere_.

"Skitts," he says, "I know it's been hard for you since Snitch—"

So _that's _how it's going to be. God, Skittery _hates _it when they play that card.

He cuts Blink off. "Snitch and I are different people, alright, Blink? Just because he had… Just because he was like that doesn't mean I am."

"I never said you were! I just think that you should maybe… calm down a little, you know? Think a little more, maybe talk to someone about it."

"I'm not going to a therapist."

"But it could really—"

"Kid," Mush says suddenly, "Kid, I believe him."

Blink frowns.

"No, really." He touches Blink's arm, "I think he really does see these things."

"But just because he _sees _them doesn't mean they're real."

"Just because you can see me doesn't mean _I'm _real, but you're pretty sure of that."

"Yeah, but _everybody _can see _you_."

"Look, guys," Skittery breaks in, "I have places to be, okay? I'll see you Monday."

As he walks away, Blink calls after him, "Just think about it, alright?"

He turns back just long enough to see Mush smack Blink lightly. Then he walks in a direction he had not planned on until he heard Them chant.

He is going to the library.

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**A/N:** I was serious about the not reporting me thing. I don't think you can copyright titles, per se, so it should be fine, but still. I like this story; I don't want it taken down.

SBM: I _love _psychotic characters. I'm glad Skittery came out well.

Charlie: This fic is proof of How I Cannot Write Gen. There was supposed to be no pairing, and now not only has Blush seeped into the background but Snittery is coming up in future chapters as well. So yes, there will indeed be Snittery.

Brunette: HA! I HAVE CONFUSED ANOTHER! …Er. I mean. All will be revealed in time. Yeah, that.

Madmbutterfly713: Updated!

Ellaeternity: Thank you!


	3. Substandard French Skills

**Disclaimer: Not mine.**

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**Persecutory Delusions**

_Chapter 3: Substandard French Skills_

The library stands out. It's not particularly big, or popular, or even made of shiny materials in day-glo colors, but it is still distinctly separate from the surrounding dens of politics and bureaucracy.

Some of it is the architecture: it is a single example of the pseudo-Greek pillars and carvings that architects fall back on when they want a building to look old and venerable. The library's surroundings, however, are either blatantly modern or blatantly late-nineteenth century.

The library may not have interesting statuary, but it's got books and internet access, and that's good enough for Skittery.

He climbs the sandstone steps with his eyes down turned, making himself as inconspicuous as possible. There is a reason he went to the downtown library instead of heading back for the suburbs.

In the suburban branch of the library, he is a regular. All the librarians know him by name. Downtown, he has anonymity. Skittery does not want people to know he's researching Them. If people can find out, then They can find out, and Skittery is certain that that would not be a good thing.

Inside the library, he goes immediately for the computers. Though books may be a more detailed resource, the computer is an easy starting point, so he figure's he'll begin at the beginning and use them.

That's when he notices the "Must Sign up for Computer Use in Advance" signs clinging to the monitors and decides that maybe he'll just stick to books.

The one downside to the downtown library's enormous collection is that it's very hard to find your way around. Skittery is looking for a general book on conspiracies, maybe some sort of encyclopedia, but where would that be? Reference? SF/Fantasy? Psychology? Guidebooks for the clinically insane? He doubt's there's a separate section for the last, though it does seem the most likely candidate.

Knowing modern society, of course, SF/Fantasy does seem likely. After all, _none _of the conspiracies are actually _true, _now _are _they?

All genres of fiction other than children's are crowded together into one room. A thin hallway leads from the entrance room to it and causes it to become decidedly isolated. The fiction room is neither as well lit as the rest of the library nor as often cleaned, so it has not lost that antique bookstore feeling all libraries seem to acquire whether or not it's intended.

Skittery turns down one of the aisles labeled "Science Fiction" and starts to look.

The going is slow. Most of the library's SF collection consists of space operas and Anne McCaffrey style science fantasy. The closest thing Skittery is able to find is the _Illuminatus! _Trilogy, and even that is not very helpful. After awhile, he sits down. Looking over the bottom rows is not easy when you're practically bent over double.

God. He knew it wouldn't be easy, but he didn't expect it to be this _boring_. He remembers back when going to the library was _fun_.

Skittery has begun to idly remove and replace books, just out of sheer mind-numbing boredom. The musty scent of old-books is going to his head, and things are beginning to get surreal. If his life were a movie, Skittery is sure that the sound track would be playing New Agey trance music around now.

Or possibly random banjo music, because the movie industry is just that weird these days.

Skittery is so wound up in his sage thoughts of wisdom that he barely notices the books he's picking up. Until, of course, he manages to dislodge one that sends half the shelf sliding.

He is so distracted by the tide of books he's dislodged that he doesn't notice the human

form that ghosts by the aisle he's in, pausing for only half a second.

"Shit!" Skittery yelps as he pushes himself away from the avalanche of books. Great, now he has to either put all of them away or risk the librarians hating him forever. And it's not a good thing when librarians hate you, as Skittery knows very well.

He begins to arrange the fallen literature in some semblance of order. It was a shelf he'd already looked at, so most of the books are familiar to him.

And then his hand brushes dry leather, a strange contrast to the other, paperbound books.

Skittery looks down. He has definitely not seen _this _before. The new book is relatively thin. He estimates it to be only around a hundred pages long. The leather that binds it is old and faint cracks can be seen across its deep red surface. There is no title printed on the outside, and a faded black ribbon attached to the binding serves as a page-marker. As lovely as it is, though, something seems to be missing. Skittery figures that it's probably just his paranoia acting up and gently flips the cover open.

The pages are yellowed to the shade of parchment, though they are far thinner than parchment could ever be. They are so thin, in fact, that they remind Skittery of an old bible.

He turns past the first few blank protection pages in an attempt to find the title.

It is printed in coal black ink. The letters are raised slightly from the page. The typeface has the clear simplicity of most early serif fonts. It is not at all faded. There is only one real problem with the book.

Skittery's French is less than stellar.

Back in middle-school, Skittery signed up for French, and he's taken it since seventh grade. However, his school's language program does _not _exactly rate best in the state, and even so it has never been one of his best subjects.

"_Le mémoire de Thierry Quereux au sujet du culte de la nuit,"_ the title reads, _"Et sa recontre avec le mal foncé."_

That is quite clear, even to Skittery's mostly untrained eye.

"Thierry Quereux's report on the subject of the cult of the night and his encounter with the dark evil."

Underneath it, though, is quite a bit of fine print which Skittery cannot hope to read. Rather than straining his mind with a language he does not speak, he contemplates the title.

It seems promising. The cult of the night? The shadow-creatures are dark as night. And "dark evil" is certainly descriptive of them, as well. He may be onto something here.

Then again, he was barely able to translate the title, so how is he supposed to read the rest of it? He is not going to ask someone to translate it for him. There's no one he trusts enough.

Snitch had taken French as well, and had been much better at it than Skittery. If only he were here…

But Skittery is not going to go there. He's got a problem to work on here. His crazy best friend can wait for another time.

Looking at the book, Skittery realizes what it is missing: a library barcode. He guesses he's not checking it out, then. But he's not going to leave without it. It could be _important_.

Well, it is quite a small book. So much so that it could _easily _get lost in the folds of one's coat. Maybe one would even _conveniently forget _about it and just walk out the door with it.

_And what a tragedy that would be_, Skittery thinks as he tucks the book into his pocket.

With _le mémoire _safely forgotten about, Skittery walks once more to the computers. He thinks he'd rather like to know who this Thierry Quereux is.

He can try the biography section while he waits for a free machine.

Just over an hour later, Skittery walks down the steps outside the library with only one additional book, a very thin volume on famous conspirologists.

He is _definitely _not also carrying a certain small, leather-bound book.

As Skittery nears the bottom of the steps, he stops suddenly.

He would like to go on, but he finds his way blocked by an ominous man in a black suit.

The man is tall, his shoulders broad. An aquiline nose dominates his face, and a black fedora dips over his forehead and follow the line of his nose, emphasizing its sharp, falcon-like pointedness. A pair of pitch-black sunglasses obscures the man's eyes.

"Excuse me," Skittery says, and tries to get out of the man's way.

It doesn't work.

"Hello, Alexander," The man says. A French accent hangs heavy on his voice.

Skittery does not ask how the man knows his name. He is too busy ignoring the reoccurrence of men-in-black in stories about the fierce interrogation of conspiracy victims. He wouldn't really like to be taken into custody by the government, thank you. Or tortured, come to think of it.

The man is still blocking Skittery's path, but now the aggressiveness of his movement is much more apparent.

"Or would you prefer to be called Skittery?" He asks, grinning predatorily.

"What do you want?" Skittery keeps the fear from his voice, but just barely.

"Simply to warn you, _Skittery_. Take care with that book," the man raises an eyebrow, "Or you may suffer the same fate as our poor, _dear _Thierry."

The man turns away and either loses himself in the crowd remarkably quickly or disappears into thin air.

Skittery walks home much more quickly than usual.

He is growing wary of the color black.

Once he is safely at home and out of the way of any strategically placed men-in-black or evil shadow-creatures, Skittery takes out the skinny conspirologist book. Thierry Quereux has only one short paragraph in the chapter on miscellaneous interesting figures.

"_A native of France, Thierry Quereux actually spent most of his life in French-speaking Switzerland," _the book reads,_ "His main occupation was printing, and he was only devoted to the science of conspirology in his spare time. However, due to his rather absurd theories, this may be a blessing to our Art rather than a curse. The man's most famous idea related to an organization that he called 'the Cult of the Night'. He hypothesized that a race of dark beings collectively referred to as the 'mal foncé' (_dark evil_, in English) hid in shadows and darkness, coming out only in order to wreak terror on our world. Further convoluting this theory was the notion that the beings fed on human dreams. Quereux was deemed clinically insane at the age of 33 and locked away in an institution. Two years later, he was found murdered and mutilated in his bed. He was not much of a loss."_

Clinically insane.

So that's what the man-in-black meant.

Oh, shit. Skittery does not like where this is going at all. Maybe Blink was right. Maybe he _is _crazy.

Skittery very carefully takes _le mémoire _out of his pocket. Then, he walks over to his bookcase and tucks it behind the thick bible on the top shelf.

He is no longer very sure about its value.

Outside, the sun is creeping closer and closer to the horizon. If it were any earlier, Skittery would have gone outside and walked for a while. Just walked, and thought. Because God, did he have a lot to think about.

Skittery has seen things before. He has thought he was being followed, and all of that other cliché stuff you hear about paranoid people thinking. But at least those times he acknowledged that they probably weren't real.

Now… He can't help it. They're too solid to ignore. The man he saw today was real, that's for sure, and if he was then They are as well. But now he's discovered that these things he's been seeing were actually thought up by a clinically insane French guy with a printing press.

Skittery really wishes Snitch were here. He always was good to talk to about stuff like this.

On Sunday, Skittery does not walk to the factory, or even downtown. He is trying very hard not to think about Them, and it's mostly working. Sure They're still there, skulking in the back of his mind, but at least he's not obsessing.

Much.

The only thing about not focusing on Them is that Skittery can't remember how to focus on anything else. What is he supposed to do, if not researching Them or looking for Them or being chased by Them?

He wishes he could count the ceiling tiles, but his room doesn't have any.

After a few hours, when he's already gone through two books and half a movie that turned out to be so boring it wasn't worth it, Skittery resorts to _cleaning _of all things to keep himself busy and away from what he hopes are delusions. He's halfway through alphabetizing his bookshelf (and very carefully avoiding the bible on the top shelf) when he realizes that doing this means he's _really _insane.

That's when the phone rings.

So there _is _a God.

Skittery picks it up while it's less than halfway through its first ring.

"Hello?" He says.

"Hey," the phone responds, and falls quiet again. Skittery waits a few seconds and then rolls his eyes.

"What's up, Jack?" Skittery only knows one person who refuses to introduce himself on the phone to anyone short of government officials.

"Not much. You've been alphabetizing your bookshelf again, haven't you?"

"…So?" His friends know him too well.

"If you do not go outside and actually _do _something, I will personally eviscerate you with your own library card." Skittery almost laughs. Jack has always been creative with his insults.

"Do you even know what 'eviscerate' means?" Skittery asks him.

Jack sounds offended. "Of course I do. But that's beside the point."

"Right."

"We're coming to get you in ten minutes."

"…I see."

"If you stay inside any longer your skin is going to start catching on fire whenever you go out."

"Good-bye, Jack."

"See ya, Skitts."

Skittery hangs up.

He doesn't see why he's the insane one, when Jack is clearly in need of professional help.

He did have a point about the alphabetizing-bookcases thing, though. Skittery does that too much.

When the doorbell rings, Skittery drags himself doggedly downstairs. Though he's been bored out of his wits and preoccupied with delusions that he _certainly _does not still believe are real, he knows his friends too well to be particularly happy about this let's-save-Skittery-from-his-own-organizational-skills idea they've gotten.

It's all well and good until someone loses an eye.

No, really. Skittery remembers back when Kid Blink had still had depth perception.

But that's beside the point. As Skittery trudges across his front lawn and into the car where four of his friends are waiting, he tries to recall exactly why he's not doing something productive.

Oh, yeah. Psychosis.

The only seat left is between Mush and Blink in the back seat, but when Skittery gets there Mush quickly scoots over closer to Blink. Neither of them are exactly complaining about how close together they have to sit, and Skittery is just glad he isn't between them.

They drive for only two minutes before Skittery thinks of the obvious question that one should _always_ ask before getting into a car with Skittery's friends.

"Where are we going, exactly?" He says.

Jack laughs.

Dear God. That is never a good sign. Skittery lets his forehead lean against the window, and wonders if maybe this is actually worse than obsessing about a French guy's visions of evil.

* * *

**A/N: **This is now officially the longest fic I have ever written. Whee!

volatile.virgin: That's alright, productivity is overrated. I'm edgy? Ah, cool, edgy is awesome. Thanks!

Brunette: Aw. I'm sorry you don't like slash. I'm glad that you like this enough to keep reading anyway, though.

Kid Blink's Dreamer: Thank you!

SBM: Why, thank you. Flow is my specialty.

Charlie Bird: Hee. You are _hilarious_, man. It's awesome. Try not to hurt yourself falling off chairs, though. Flattering as it is.

madmbuttefly: Thanks!

ellaeternity: Wonderbubbly? Best word ever. Seriously.


	4. No Progress

**Disclaimer: Not mine.**

* * *

**Persecutory Delusions  
**_Chapter 4: No Progress_

Over the years, Skittery has learned never to be surprised by his friends. Jack, for example, once actually managed to convince his History teacher that the entirety of western Europe had broken out in nuclear war and that the US would be following shortly, and ever since then, Skittery has not been able to look at him quite the same way.

Never, though, has he had as much reason to be surprised as he has now.

Skittery started to worry when _everyone_ refused to tell him where they were going. Not just Jack; that would have been normal. But also Blink and Mush and David. And usually, Mush at least would cave and tell Skittery whatever it was the rest of them were concealing.

Not this time, though. The mouths of Skittery's friends have remained firmly shut throughout the car ride, and now that they've stopped Skittery can see why.

If anyone had told him where they were going he probably would have thrown himself out of the car rather than have gone along with it.

The car window tints the plain brick building outside a slightly greenish color. The building's hulking form glowers across a half-filled parking lot, boxlike and cold. Its glassy windows try to stare into Skittery's soul, but he will not let the place have him.

Not like it has Snitch.

"Come on, Skitts," Blink calls from outside the car, "Visiting hours are almost over."

So they're finally letting him have visitors? They must have made progress.

Skittery does not want to see progress. Not on Snitch.

He pushes the car door open as quickly as his unsteady hand will allow him. After he stands up, he stops, and stares resolutely at his friends.

"No," Skittery says, calmly and clearly.

"Skitts," Mush says, "Seeing him will be good for you. I know you miss him. You can talk about—"

"No!" Skittery says, "I won't. I _can't."_

He is backing away from them, slowly, like a wounded animal.

"What do you have to be afraid of? You knew Snitch best of all of us." David says, ever the voice of logic.

Screw logic. What did _logic_ ever get Skittery?

"No," he says again, and runs.

Skittery has no clear idea of where he's going. All he knows, at the moment, is wind and footsteps and white hot rage at his friends' pretension.

They shouldn't have done that. They fucking shouldn't have. They _know _what happened between Skittery and Snitch that night.

But it didn't affect them, did it? They weren't there. They didn't have to stand back and watch their best friend go out of his mind. They didn't hear how his voice cracked like he was twelve again. They didn't see the expression on his face while he picked up the knife: the way the bright smile was twisted and torn and ragged like a tattered flag in the wind.

Skittery nearly lost it himself that night, seeing Snitch's face. He is never going to let that happen again. If he can't save Snitch then he'll save himself.

Skittery does not stop running until he can barely breathe. He takes a few halting steps even as he stops.

That's when he falls over by the shoulder of the road he's been on, and tries to get a hold of himself. He does not shake with repressed anger or sorrow. He does not punch the earth. Not a tear escapes his eyes.

He is too busy trying to remember how to breathe.

For a while, Skittery sits there relatively calmly, propped up on his arms. When his breathing is close to normal again, he stands up and starts walking. He will not break down again.

Skittery is grateful, at least, for the distraction from the matter of the shadow-creatures.

The direction Skittery has picked leads back into town. The hospital is not exactly close to the rest of civilization, but it's not a difficult walk, and soon Skittery is downtown once more.

If he were a better person he would go to the factory and confront his fears, late in the day as it is.

Too bad he's a coward.

Skittery does not watch the people around him as he walks home, and he sincerely hopes that they do not watch him. His steps come quickly and he takes the fastest route he knows.

Boredom isn't looking so bad anymore. Skittery doesn't _want_ to think. He doesn't want to deal with his friends, or his family, or even himself. He wants _out_.

When he reaches home, he trudges sullenly through the slightly overgrown front lawn and pushes the door open. Even though only his mom and his sister are there, it seems more crowded than usual. Skittery does not look forward to when his dad gets home from his business trip next week. The house seems too small for one person, let alone four.

It's around eight o'clock. Skittery wasted almost three hours being traumatized by his friends, and also succeeded in missing dinner.

Joy of joys. He accomplished exactly _nothing_.

Skittery goes into the kitchen and starts pulling cabinets open. Theirs is not an incredibly well-stocked house when it comes to food, but Skittery came home too late to complain at his mom. It's an unwritten law in his house: if you miss dinner, you don't complain, or eat leftovers. You cook something else for yourself.

Leaning one arm on the counter, Skittery pulls a cookbook out from under the wall cabinets. He flips through it idly for a few seconds, and then, promptly, he drops it.

What the fuck?

Skittery stares wide-eyed at the cookbook, which lies somewhat forlornly, not unlike a fallen bird, on the kitchen floor.

That recipe says, very clearly, "_Contributed by Thierry Quereux_." Really. Skittery swears.

So either his eyes were deceiving him, or the infamous Thierry Quereux was also a chef. Which makes no sense whatsoever.

Skittery's fingers, as he lifts the cookbook, are as gentle as though he were handling old lace. He takes a deep breath and flips to the page he'd been looking at.

…Oh. _Theodore Quince. _Not _Thierry Quereux_. Talk about Freudian slips. Or maybe it was more Rorschach than Freud. Whatever.

Perhaps it's not that smart to keep ignoring whatever is going on. It doesn't seem to be good for Skittery's health. Mental _or _physical.

As Skittery's eyes rest on the broken trashcan, the sink overflowing with dirty dishes, and the moldy bread on the counter, he decides that he's not that hungry after all.

He thinks he'll go to sleep. It's not like he has a reason to stay up. That would just give him time to _think_.

As Skittery lies in bed with the darkness coalescing around him, the shadows outside his window are _certainly_ not alive. At first, he is perfectly still. No senseless images cloud his mind, and no thoughts can penetrate the fortress of sleep Skittery has built around himself. Then, his eyes flicker beneath their lids in what is unmistakably an REM cycle.

Skittery is having the dream again.

He knows it's a dream even as he experiences it. It is just as vibrant as it was the first time, and the images are just as strikingly clear. No element has changed in the slightest.

It is, however, ten times as frightening as it was before.

The dream means that Skittery cannot forget. It means that however he tries, They will never leave him alone. It means that he will always wonder who the boy is.

This time, when Skittery wakes, it is still the middle of the night. Instead of lying back and catching his breath, Skittery stands up. He does not turn on the lights. He knows his room well enough not to need one. Skittery's careful steps carry him to his bookcase, and his fingers drift up to the Bible on the top shelf.

Then, with a sudden, uncharacteristically violent movement, he throws it off the shelf and pulls the book behind it into his hands.

It is too late. He can't ignore it anymore. They won't let him. _He_ won't let him.

The dream has continued, and that alone is proof enough. But there's also the men-in-black, who, rather than dissuading Skittery from looking into the _mal foncé_, have actually geared him into action.

It is time, and he knows it.

When Skittery opens the book this time, he pages past the title page immediately and goes straight to the first chapter, which he finds is entitled, "_Les manières du culte de la nuit."_

It is slow going, and once more Skittery wishes for the French talents of his dear, clinically insane friend. By the time the sky is beginning to grow light, Skittery has only managed to decode two pages and those not fully.

None of what he finds is very new. Most of it was summed up in that encyclopedia article of a paragraph that Skittery found in the other book, or on one of the websites he'd looked at. Eventually, he realizes that if he doesn't get dressed he'll be so late for school that nothing the _mal foncé _can do will compare to the punishment he will receive from his teachers.

Skittery curses the guy who invented Mondays.

Today, no evil-looking shadows follow the bus, and the parking lot does not explode into darkness when the bus pulls in. Everything seems normal: the slightly grimy brick, the fresh paint on the door where janitors have just painted over graffiti, the chipped paint inside on the walls. Real as everything is beginning to seem, Skittery idly wonders if maybe it is all just paranoia.

Then, a note falls out of the vent on his locker.

It is a simple, crisply-folded sheet of white paper. No marks mar its outside, and it is folded so well you could easily use it as a straight-edge. Skittery folds it open gently, expecting either an apology or a question about his mental health from one of his friends.

It turns out to be neither. The paper is not, as Skittery had hypothesized, plain and white. Rather, it is stationery which bears a complex and unrecognizable device where the letterhead should be.

"_And we thought you were following our advice,_" it is printed in a simple serif font, "_Do not touch the book again."_

Skittery tucks the note into his pocket. Threatening as it is, at least he now has proof that he's not totally insane.

He's not sure whether to rejoice or to repent.

For most of the day, Skittery pushes both the note and the reactions of his friends to his little outburst yesterday to the back of his mind. It is easy to avoid them in class, and during lunch he simply switches tables. He is only delaying the inevitable, but so are people who get treated for possibly fatal illnesses, so he figures that it's not such a big thing.

The note is more of a problem than his friends. He can practically feel it burning through his clothes. The forceful words on it have seared the note's form onto Skittery's mind in Technicolor detail, and he can barely keep himself from taking it out and staring at it to see if it really _is_ exactly as he remembers it.

Still, Skittery has every intention of ignoring it. Now that he's started reading that book… Something's changed. He's not scared anymore. Well, he is, but not in the same way.

Before, his fear was a knife of dark, dizzying nausea that stabbed through his body anytime he contemplated Them. Now, it's pure energy. It's like espresso for the nerves. His senses extend farther and stronger than they did before, and he has an odd kind of stressed-out mania.

The note does not make him as afraid as he is sure it should, but he cannot bring himself to care. Not when he may finally be on to something. Skittery is sure he can deal with the men-in-black if need be.

Halfway through lunch, he actually almost wishes it is the men-in-black he must deal with today, rather than his friends. He can see Mush crossing the cafeteria, face serious.

Skittery looks around for an escape, but none is apparent. As his friend approaches his table, Skittery avoids eye contact at all costs. He is not stupid enough to believe that if he ignores him, Mush will go away. Mush is kind of like a mule that way: stubborn, and not exactly the brightest crayon in the box.

Skittery hears rather than sees Mush sitting down across from him. Skittery is still steadfastly ignoring him.

"Look at me, Skitts," Mush says. Skittery does so. Now that Mush is here, there's really no point in avoiding it.

"What do you want?" Skittery asks.

"I'm sorry. It was my fault. I convinced them to take you there."

Skittery stares at him stoically, not speaking.

"I shouldn't have done it. I just thought it would help."

"Yeah, well. It didn't, did it?" Skittery says.

"I'm really sorry. I should have remembered that you—"

"But you _didn't_."

"I _know_. It won't happen again. I'm _really _sorry."

Skittery sighs. This would have been easier if it were anyone else. It's almost impossible to stay mad at Mush.

"Yeah," he says, "Just… just don't forget again, okay? I can't see him again. Not now." _No matter how much I'd like to_.

Mush nods and says, "See you later, Skitts."

Skittery does not watch as Mush leaves the table to go back to the rest of his friends.

He hadn't quite planned on forgiving them this fast, but at least it lets him concentrate on only one problem.

Skittery has shadows to hunt.

* * *

**A/N: **Sorry this took longer than usual. I have no computer at my dad's house, and that was where I was. 

Volatile.virgin: Ah, thanks. I didn't know I could do long fiction, but then this story took over my brain and now it won't let go.

Madmbutterfly: Hey, if I called you on the laziness I'd be a hypocrite. And here is an update.

Charlie Bird: Of course. It's just like how I'm actually not as oblivious as I pretend to be, yes?Thierry, actually,is two people—there's a kid in my French class called Thierry and Quereux was my grandmother's maiden name.

Brunette: Oh God. I just realized I've been mixing drafts in my head. The guy in the front passenger seat is David, which I actually stated in one of the earlier drafts. I'm _so _sorry! I'll be more careful next time.

Kid Blink's Dreamer: Heh. I'm gonna take freaky as a compliment.

Thumbsucker Snitch: Thanks! I _love _Donnie Darko; maybe it's rubbing off on me.

Ellaeternity: You play banjo? That's awesome! When I shut people up, I just have to say, "Yeah, well, I like pie!" because for some reason mentioning that I play bass does not have the same effect.


	5. Nike Commercial

**Disclaimer: Not mine.**

* * *

**Persecutory Delusions  
**_Chapter 5: Nike Commercial_

The sun stabs the earth with a flaming sword, almost causing the asphalt on the street to steam. It is the first really hot day of the year, and with it has come the lazy slowness and tired sweat that characterize the summer.

Tracking something that does not exist is even slower going in the heavy heat than usual.

Skittery is downtown again, for the third day this week. He is starting to think that the shadow-creatures are purposely avoiding him, but he can't think of any way that would make sense. They were the ones chasing him, after all.

The bright side to not seeing Them is that Skittery has also had no contact with the men-in-black. Out of this whole thing, they scare him the most.

Around him, the crowds are thicker than usual. Hot as it is, people want to take advantage of the sunlight that is so rare during the other seasons. The closeness of the fray pressing up against Skittery makes him lightheaded. It's the smell of sweat combined with the overwhelming size of the crowd; the sensory over-stimulation causes the scene to become surreal.

Maybe that's why he doesn't notice the familiar face at first.

Skittery's eyes have been dancing over the people in the street for all the hours he's been here, and the faces have blended into one long blur of anonymous humanity. The only thing Skittery has been looking for is a man-sized patch of darkness, but none has been apparent. When his gaze hits something familiar, he passes over at first. Then he retakes, and stares.

Skittery knows that face. He knows it all too well.

He stares and sees a person he's known most of his life. He sees a lifetime shared and shattered. He sees failings forgiven and strengths praised. He sees memories he has tried so hard to forget these past months.

He sees Snitch.

That's not possible.

Snitch is in a mental hospital, and for a very good reason at that. He cannot simply be standing in the middle of the street. It's just _not possible_. Skittery hopes it's like the thing with Thierry Quereux's name the other day, but the longer he stares the more obvious it is that it's really his friend.

Then Snitch turns his head, and their stares connect.

For Skittery, it is like the world is suddenly made of glass. The sounds around him grow dim, and the images seem crystalline and brittle. It seems to him that he and Snitch are attached with a strand of clear glass that refuses to bend or break.

"Skitts!" Snitch calls, and the glass explodes.

For the second time in a week, Skittery runs away from his best friend.

It is a cowardly thing to do, he knows. But he _can't _deal with it now, he doesn't know how, he's not strong enough. He's not ready. Running makes more sense this time than it did last time, at least.

After all, this time he's being pursued.

He can hear Snitch's rapid footfalls behind him, and it is clear that they are getting steadily closer.

Shit. He should have worked harder in gym class.

Skittery lets his unconscious guide him. He has no energy to devote to coming up with a destination; he's too busy trying not to collapse from exhaustion.

Skittery is not a powerful runner. In gym class, he's that scrawny, pale kid who hangs around in the corner trying to get everyone to ignore him.

Of course, he's like that in most of his classes, but that's beside the point.

In any case, he can feel himself growing slower and slower just as his breaths grow in speed. Then, suddenly, one of his feet catches on the other and he topples toward the ground.

It happens very fast: one second Skittery finds the tan cement sidewalk approaching his face very rapidly, and the next everything stops and he is being held up by two very familiar arms.

This is the point where he realizes who the boy in his dream was. How 'bout that.

Together, Skittery and Snitch are suspended in time. They stand pressed together, and Skittery can feel their breaths even out in unison. It feels so perfect, like the calm that came in his dream when he was in the same position there.

He does not turn around. That would spoil everything and he'd have to remember inconvenient stuff like insanity and bad-timing and what the innocent bystanders will think.

"Hey," says a voice near Skittery's ear, and he shivers a little as he feels the warm breath.

"Hey," he replies.

The arms around him shift, and the thing he has been avoiding at all costs occurs.

Skittery turns around, looks Snitch full in the eyes, and remembers.

_Not a slight breeze disturbs the air around him, and not a cloud the sky. It is entirely inappropriate weather: there should be a hurricane, or a tornado, or at the very least a thunderstorm. _

_Skittery strides down the street with an urgency that is apparent in every line of his body. When he reaches his destination, he flings the door open, the violence of his action going totally unnoticed in his haste to get inside. He knows exactly where he is needed; they told him where Snitch was when they called him._

_Skittery walks up the stairs. The faded mauve carpet muffles any sound that his footfalls otherwise would have made. It's so quiet that he can hear the dust._

_As Skittery gets closer to the room at the end of the hall, the silence is broken by a strangled cry, and he jumps at the sudden sound. _

_It is worse than usual, then._

_The door to Snitch's room opens much more gently than the front door did earlier, and Skittery closes it just as lightly. When he sees the figure hunched in the corner, his breath catches involuntarily in his throat._

_It is definitely worse than usual. Snitch is bleeding from several cuts on his hands, and the blood has rubbed off on his clothes. His face is turned away, but his shoulders are tense and his body is shaking, and that tells Skittery all he needs to now._

_Any effort to examine any damage that might have been done to the room would be futile, because Skittery cannot bring himself to look away from his friend. As he edges closer, Snitch suddenly whips around to look at him._

_When their eyes connect, Skittery finally understands._

_Something about Snitch has changed fundamentally. His face is wrong: the expression, the set of it, and the fact that red tracks, unmistakably caused by tears, trace its curves. He looks like he sees everything and nothing, like he has broken the world and built a new one. He looks like he is being hunted by his own mind._

"_Skitts," he says urgently, voice a perfect match for his face, "Skitts, you shouldn't have come."_

"_No," Skittery says, "I had to. I had to, you—"_

"_You don't understand! They'll see you! You can't be here!"_

"_Snitch, I'll be fine—"_

"_They can't get you too! They already… But I'm going to _get _them first, so it doesn't matter anymore."_

_He is no longer talking to Skittery._

"_No. No, you bastards won't get him. I can see you, I know where you are and I'm coming."_

_He reaches for something on the desk and at last Skittery can pull his eyes away. When he sees the glint of lamplight on metal, he cries out._

"_Snitch, no!" _

_Skittery grabs Snitch's arm, and there is a brief struggle that Skittery can barely follow even though he's a part of it. He knows the end result, though: he has a knife in his hand and Snitch is staring at him like he thinks he's about to die._

_Skittery knows that this is the end, and that they can't delay any longer. He goes for the phone as Snitch continues to stare like a game animal watching a hunter._

_Skittery stays with him until he hears the car pull up in the driveway and the door open. Then, he gets the hell out of the way._

Looking up at Snitch, Skittery does not see someone who has been broken. He sees the same wide smile and open eyes that he's known for years. And he sees the person whose identity he's been trying to figure out ever since he first had the dream.

The feeling of Snitch's arms around him is the same in real life as it was in the dream, so much so that Skittery wonders about the realism of his REM cycles. He almost leans into the embrace like he did in the dream. Snitch does seem to be holding on to him longer than is really necessary… But no, he's letting go now, and Skittery steps back slightly as he does so.

The two of them stand silently for a second, Snitch staring at Skittery and Skittery staring at the ground.

"So," Snitch finally says, "Long time no see."

"No shit."

"How's life?"

_Good question. _"It's fine."

"That's good." Snitch looks away for a second. "Do you trust me?"

"…Not really."

Snitch sighs and Skittery shrugs.

"Look, just come with me, all right?" Snitch says. Skittery shrugs again, and follows him. He doesn't have much to lose anymore.

A few minutes later, Skittery resolves to never trust anyone who tells him to come somewhere again. It can never have good results. Just look at what has happened to Skittery in the past month. First, he followed his friends and ended up at a mental institution. Now, he followed Snitch and ended up _here_.

The factory, Skittery thinks, has a way of screwing with your mind.

Up until recently, every time he came here he saw at least one of Them, and he sincerely doubts that They're real. Shadows don't come to life.

Not only that, but his psychotic best friend seems to have an affinity for this place as well, which cannot be a good sign.

"You've been here before," Snitch says.

"Yeah," Skittery replies, "So?"

"Have you ever looked inside?"

"Who cares?"

"Do it."

"_Why?_"

"Just _do _it!"

"You're sounding like a Nike commercial, Andy."

"Stop dodging the question, _Alex_."

"Shut up. Also, it wasn't a question."

"_Skitts_."

"_Fine!_"

Skittery glares at Snitch and trudges across the lot toward the factory building itself.

The gravel makes a faint crunching noise beneath his feet and turns his black shoes gray. The huge windows on the side of the factory are caked with the same dust. Skittery has to wipe off a layer of it that's almost an inch thick before he sees glass. It takes him several seconds to clear a space large enough to see through. When he finishes, he leans his forehead against the window and looks in.

At first, he thinks that the darkness inside is just due to the fact that there are no lights on. Then he realizes that even though the windows are incredibly dirty, there should be at least a little illumination.

This is when he starts worrying.

Skittery has never exactly been calm under pressure. Still, he does not panic at first. He is reasonably sure that there is an explanation for the pitch black factory. Maybe the windows are just at a bad angle or something.

He doesn't even panic when he realizes that the darkness is moving.

Dark forms swirl throughout the factory in a turbulent flow. Their movements are strange and chaotic, and they seem across between an extremely wild river and an extremely wild modern dance company. It is Them, he knows, but at least he is separated from Them by a pane of glass almost an inch thick.

Skittery only panics when one of the ever-moving forms swoops out of the crowd and speeds directly toward him.

He can barely make out its form against the warped black background, but it's obviously one of the shadow-creatures that have been chasing him. Finally, he realizes where they all have gone.

The creature is moving swiftly, its arms outstretched before it. It nears the window like a black locomotive and passes through it just as easily as a locomotive would.

Skittery hears the sound of breaking glass as he throws himself backward. He cries out with the combined pain of shock and glass shards and hitting the ground. As hot as it was earlier, Skittery is now chilled to the bone.

Skittery wonders dimly if Snitch knew this would happen when he sent him to the factory.

He really, really hopes not.

* * *

**A/N: **My computer sucks.

volatile.virgin: Making words up is always a good use of one's time.

Charlie: The mental hospital? Is based on a real one. And it really is that creepy. Thanks for the compliment. And, of course, the falling off chairs.

Brunette: Um. Thanks? I love 1984.

ellaeternity: It made perfect sense, and bass does rock. Without it, music would be… baseless. cough

lainie-d: Writed. Er, written. Whatever. You know what I mean.

madmbutterfly: Yeah, he does kind of freak out about random stuff. But real people are like that too, so I figure it's all good.

Kid Blink's Dreamer: Now. Well, not quite. But the undertones are there. If you look really, really hard.

skittery's bad mood: Thank _you _for reviewing.

Thumbsucker Snitch: Thanks! I actually wasn't that into Snittery before, but now I'm starting to really like it.


	6. What is the Light?

**Disclaimer: Still not mine. And the chapter title's a Flaming Lips song.**

* * *

**Persecutory Delusions  
**_Chapter Six: What is the Light?_

Skittery's eyes are closed, but the darkness behind his eyelids is far different from that which dances around him. He worries distantly as he falls about the broken glass on the ground and the ill effect it will have on his clothes.

He lies there, for a few moments, trying not to think. His brain has been thrown into chaos and he can't tell one sense from another. The world has distanced itself from him, so that he doesn't realize, at first, that his name is being called.

Skittery opens his eyes, and stares up at Snitch, whose face has turned a whiter shade of pale.

"Oh God, Skitts I didn't mean it, it wasn't supposed to do that, you have to be alright, because, and oh God that's never happened before—" Skittery is having trouble focusing on Snitch's voice, and it doesn't help that Snitch himself is far from coherent.

"You have to believe me, _I didn't mean to_, I would never, couldn't, and you believe me, right? 'Cause I wouldn't do that on purpose, I swear—"

Skittery tries to say, "Shut up, Snitch." It doesn't quite work as planned, but at least it gets Snitch's attention.

"You're alright. Oh, thank God, I thought—but you're alright," Snitch says. He reaches down and lightly touches Skittery's face as though he thinks it might break.

When he tries to sit up, Skittery almost manages it without Snitch's help. Almost.

"Yeah," he says once he's in a close-to-upright position that involves him being mostly supported by Snitch, "I'm alright."

"It's just that we have to show that place to everyone, before they can… But usually it's safe, nothing like that's ever happened, I didn't know it could."

If Skittery weren't coherent, he'd wonder what Snitch meant by "we". As it is, he's busy trying to remember where all of his appendages are. It's easier said than done.

He tunes Snitch out and works on making sure he still has the right number of fingers. Snitch is still babbling, still apologizing, and his apologies blend with the world around Skittery to create a dampening white haze. It's like a foggy day at sea, except that he can still see more than a foot in front of his face. He just can't process it that well.

"Snitch," Skittery says in a cotton-ball voice, "Snitch, what's going on?"

He is staring dazedly into Snitch's face, still in shock over what just happened.

"It's okay," Snitch says, "I'm here now, Skitts."

Skittery buries his face in Snitch's shirt and tries not to think too hard. Then he feels Snitch's fingers shift through his hair and he jerks his head up to face his friend once again.

"What are you doing here?" Skittery demands. His head is clear now, the impact of this moment has pushed the fog away.

"I'm here for you, Skitts," Snitch murmurs, "After all, you're one of ours."

Skittery shivers at the words that mirror those spoken by the black and shadowy apparitions days ago. Snitch doesn't notice, and continues to speak.

"Follow me, Skitts," he says, "I can show you the world. I can show you everything you want, everything you need."

With his eyes locked on his friend's, Skittery is certain that something has gone wrong.

This Snitch is not like any Snitch he has known. He's not supposed to be this way.

Then, in a flash, it's gone.

"This won't happen again, Skitts. I swear, I'd never hurt you. Just trust me."

Skittery looks away. Staring at the dusty gravel is easier than looking Snitch in the face.

"You know I won't hurt you, right? Right?"

The gravel is naturally so light gray it's almost white, but in places it has been discolored a dark red that Skittery knows is his blood.

"Listen to me, Skitts."

Splinters of glass lie scattered across the ground and reflect the sunlight. There are painfully beautiful. A pool of them fill a footprint off to his left. Skittery is not sure if it is his or Snitch's.

Then, suddenly, Skittery's view of the ground is disrupted as Snitch thrusts his hand in front of Skittery's face.

"_Look _at me, Alex."

"I am," Skittery mutters as he looks past Snitch's shoulder.

"No, you're not," Snitch says, and leans forward. Their faces are sudden much closer than Skittery thinks should be allowed. It's like there's an electric field around Snitch's skin, because Skittery is sure he can feel him even though they aren't touching.

"You _know_ me."

Skittery sighs and longs for his dream where everything was simple and he could trust the voice of a friend to make the danger go away.

"I used to." His voice is barely audible, but he feels his own breath reflect back off Snitch's cheek, disturbing the air that grows humid between them.

"You know me," Snitch says again. Skittery closes his eyes.

"I can't," he says. Even he isn't sure what he means.

Abruptly, Snitch stands up and extends a hand down to Skittery.

"Come on," he says, "We have to get you cleaned up."

Skittery has forgotten about not following people. He has forgotten everything but Snitch.

Less than ten minutes later, Skittery walks toward the bathroom of a nearby McDonald's wearing a shirt that is not his own. Snitch, whose shirt Skittery is wearing, is currently outside

somewhere. Apparently, the no shirt no shoes no service policy extends to bathroom use as well.

The bathroom, fortunately, has space only for a single person. When he enters, Skittery locks the door behind him and leans on the sink, face down-turned. He needs to breathe for a minute, and take in the silence.

The air around him is cool and dry and smells of cleaning fluid. The bathroom is simultaneously sanitized and grimy, in the way that only fast food restaurants can be. Skittery welcomes its normalcy.

He pulls off the shirt he is wearing and runs it under the faucet. The water is cold; he doesn't think he could stand hot. The hand soap in the dispenser on the wall foams a pale lavender as Skittery drips it on the shirt.

As he runs the shirt-turned-rag over his blood-coated back, Skittery winces. Maybe there are a few little pieces of broken glass still embedded in his cuts. He wonders if he should seek medical treatment.

He dismisses the idea again very quickly.

Skittery works carefully over his wounds, trying to cause as little pain as possible. He has never been pain's biggest fan, and at the moment it's looking even worse than usual.

The door begins to vibrate with a sudden knocking. Skittery jumps and causes himself all the undue pain he was avoiding.

"There's someone in here," he calls roughly, and the door laughs.

"I know, Skitts," it says, "It's me."

Skittery unlocks the door to let Snitch in. He locks it behind him again.

"Where did you get the shirt?" Skittery asks him.

Snitch looks down at the orange fabric spread across his torso. Skittery has never seen it before in his life, and he doesn't like the smile on Snitch's face. It's happy in a way that most people would describe as "demented".

Without responding to Skittery's question, Snitch walks over to him and takes hold of the shirt that's balled up in his hands.

"Want some help?" He asks.

"No," Skittery says, and snatches the shirt back. Snitch shrugs, and sits on the counter next to the sink. He stares at Skittery. Skittery tries very hard not to stare at him.

For a while, the only sound in the bathroom is the water running continuously out of the tap. Normally, Skittery would be against wasting water like that, but he thinks it's worth it to get rid of the blood.

When he is finished, his back is skin-colored rather than scarlet and a staccato series of shallow cuts has been revealed across it.

Skittery looks at Snitch.

"What are the plans for getting me out of here fully clothed?" He says, holding up the wet, bloody shirt. It's not exactly inconspicuous.

Snitch's smile grows even broader. He reaches a hand into his pocket and pulls out another shirt Skittery has never seen before. Wordlessly, Skittery takes it. As the scratchy, sweat-scented fabric slides across the cuts on his back, he decides that he doesn't really want to know where Snitch got the clothing.

Together, they exit the bathroom.

Crossing the restaurant with a different shirt than he was wearing on the way into the bathroom and with a broadly grinning Snitch at his side, Skittery can't help but wonder what the customers think.

Outside, the sun is beginning to go down, so it is a little less hot than it was earlier. Skittery and Snitch walk aimlessly through the city.

"So," Skittery says, "How did you do it?"

They both know exactly what he means.

"I… well, I didn't escape exactly. If that's what you're thinking. It's more that… it's kind of a long story." Snitch breaks off for a moment and stops looking at Skittery. "I'd rather not talk about it."

Skittery is going to make him talk.

"Okay," he says.

Or not.

Snitch slings an arm around Skittery's shoulder, and Skittery pushes it off. The silence around them is not heavy or taught with tension, though Skittery thinks it should be. Things aren't _supposed _to be easy between him and Snitch. That ended a long time ago. He doesn't want to act like it's just the same as always, but it's so _easy _to let it slip away, and Snitch was his best friend and he doesn't want to let that go…

"So what do we do now?" Skittery says, if only to stave off the quiet.

"Hm? Oh. You'll see." Snitch glances at him absentmindedly. "We'll get there soon."

"Snitch. We've been walking in circles for almost an hour."

"Yeah, I know."

They fall silent again, and Skittery shakes his head. He was hoping Snitch was at least a little closer to the sane side these days, but it seems it is not to be.

That's when Snitch stops abruptly in front of a building Skittery swears was not there last time they passed this way. Now, Skittery starts worrying about his own sanity again.

Dove gray marble rises up toward the sky, windowless and faceless. It is built the way existentialism would be if it were an architectural style. The door holds itself tightly against the wall, its reddish wood seemingly giving off an interior glow. The whole building personifies unearthly beauty, yet somehow it manages to blend in perfectly with the complexes on either side of it.

Snitch raps smartly on the wood of the door. There is a second's pause, and then a voice from within says,

"The gates open only for one who knows the truth."

"I am such a one," Snitch says, unfazed by the formality of the language.

"From whence comes the light?"

"The hearts of its bearers know."

"And wherefore do they bear it?"

"Against the shadows, to illuminate truth."

"But on this day, even a thousand stars cannot light the darkest sea."

Snitch pauses, and his brow furrows. "Are you sure?" He asks.

"I am."

"But… not now."

"On this day."

"Oh God."

There is a sigh. "Come in, brother."

The door swings open, and Snitch gestures for Skittery to go inside. As they walk in, Snitch's arm falls around Skittery's shoulder once more.

This time, he does not shrug it off.

* * *

**A/N: **The guy playing MacB in the show I was in deprived Faulkner of the title of a novel. Stupid idjit. That was my favorite line in the whole show. That, in case you're wondering, is the reason this chapter was late. The stupid idjits in my show, that is, not Faulkner.

Ellaeternity- Oh my God, a batman teddybear? The awesome.

Madmbutterfly- That's okay, I'm close to the same age. Bet you don't believe me…

Volatile.virgin- Oh yes, it's all part of my evil plan to keep you reading as long as possible. Muahahahaha!1!one1! Er… I mean… yeah.

Kid Blink's Dreamer- Heh. I tend to have that effect on people.

Thumbsucker Snitch- It so does! And now I'm trying to figure out how it is that I suddenly have two OTPs, even though that means, y'know, _one _true pairing. Yeah.


	7. That's Crazy Talk

**Disclaimer: Have I mentioned not mine?**

* * *

**Persecutory Delusions  
**_Chapter 7: That's Crazy Talk_

Skittery doesn't think that this place can be legal.

From where he and Snitch are standing, just inside the door, he can see at least a hundred torches lining the marble walls. They _must _violate fire code, especially as close as they are to the tapestries.

Not only that, but the room seems bigger than should be possible given its outside dimensions. It's huge, large enough to accommodate the entire student body of Skittery's school and then some. And yet, the torches manage to cast a warm glow into even the farthest corners.

In front of Skittery and Snitch, a middle-aged man in a business suit stands suddenly and utterly still. The beady eyes that gleam from under his salt-and-pepper hair contain a shot of distrust that seems a permanent fixture. His presence in the medieval room seems more than a little incongruous.

"What is he doing here?" The man asks, blocking any further progress into the room, "You didn't say you were bringing any others."

Snitch's arm tightens possessively around Skittery's shoulders.

"He's one of ours," he says.

"Since when?"

"That's nothing for you to worry about," Snitch states, "Look, we're here for business, alright? So I'd appreciate it if you got out of our way, _brother_. Especially if what you said about the dark was true…"

"I don't lie."

"That's not the impression I got, the first time I came here."

The man's glare intensifies. "Fine. You can go in. But don't complain at me when they throw _this _guy to the shadows."

Snitch glares back just as hard and leads Skittery past the doorkeeper.

"Sorry about that," he whispers into Skittery's ear, "He's… not very nice."

Skittery doesn't reply, too busy trying to get over the surreality of the whole situation.

Their footsteps echo just slightly in the still air, but the tapestries mostly muffle the sound. It's really kind of disconcerting. Skittery is used to living just outside of the city where there is constant noise, be it cars or birds or people. In here, though… it's even less than silent.

"So where are we going?" Skittery asks. His voice seems awkward and unwieldly in the stillness.

"I wasn't lying when I said we were here on business. Something's happening, Skitts, and it's… it's not good. They need to know."

Skittery doesn't ask what Snitch means. He doubts he would answer, anyway. Instead, he voices the other thought that's been worrying him.

"Snitch, there's no door."

He looks up at his friend, who smiles grimly and doesn't reply. They continue to walk toward the far wall.

Snitch's hand flashes toward the tapestry on the wall in front of them, and Skittery flinches at the sudden movement. Snitch doesn't notice. He sweeps into an elaborate, chivalrous stance, gesturing Skittery through the door he has revealed.

Skittery is not entirely sure he wants to go anywhere in this place without Snitch by his side, but here he doesn't seem to have much of a choice. The door is plain and thin and could not fit two people even if they were both anorexic contortionists.

Snitch closes the door behind them. The hallway the door has revealed is just slightly wider than the door frame, but there is still not room for two to walk abreast. It is full of warm colors: the deep burgundy carpet, the wood paneling, the wall-mounted torches. The torches' heat is much more easily felt in this small space than it was in the first hall, and Skittery is terrifically aware of the fire hazard they pose.

He is very careful not to veer to either side.

"I don't know where we're going," Skittery says as they pass what he estimates is their twentieth torch.

"I'll tell you when to stop," Snitch replies, voice warm and quiet and surprisingly at home in this strange place.

Neither of them speak until they approach an alcove set deep into the right hand wall. In it are a round table and five chairs, all of the same glowing wood as the doors. There are no torches in the alcove, but an unlit lamp rests in the center of the table.

Skittery stops ands turns to ask Snitch what the alcove is for, but before he can speak, Snitch laughs and says, "Great minds think alike. We're here." He smiles brightly.

Skittery frowns. They're here for this little hole in the wall? What was the point of going through this whole weird, arcane building just for a table and a few chairs?

Then he follows Snitch's gaze and sees the door on the opposite wall.

_Oh._

Skittery fades back into the darkened alcove as he allows Snitch to lead the way into through the doorway.

The room is small, and lit with the same warm glow as the hallway. Behind a large desk that is obviously meant to be intimidating sits a balding man with tanned skin and eyes that are kind of blue in the same way that Mt. Everest is kind of big. Like Snitch, he is smiling, and like Snitch there is a trace of insanity in his face.

He leans back in his chair as he says, "Hello, Andrew."

Skittery tears his eyes from the strange man's face and frowns at his friend again.

"He knows your name?"

Snitch very carefully does not look at Skittery.

"Hey, Luce. This is Skittery. Skittery, this is Lucifer."

On catching sight of Skittery, Lucifer suddenly stops smiling.

"Oh, really?" He says.

"Yeah, really."

"Is he one of us?"

"Yeah."

"Well, that's great, then!" And he's smiling again. Skittery is pretty sure this indicates mental instability. Coupled with the name…

Lucifer stands up and walks around his over large desk to shake Skittery's hand. The only word Skittery can think of to describe his grip is "energetic".

"Welcome to our headquaters," Lucifer says, "Now, what's your name?"

"It's Skittery." Maybe he has memory loss, as well.

"I meant your real name. Your full name. Your _sealed _name."

"Alex. Er. Alexander." Skittery makes a mental note to ask Snitch what the hell a sealed name is.

"You have a last name, don't you? When I said full name I meant it."

"_Full _name?"

"Mm-hm."

"Alexander Auguste Willoughs-Smythe."

Lucifer's smile grows even brighter. It's probably responsible for a good portion of this place's energy bill.

"Excellent," he says, "Andrew, show Alexander to the preparatory wing,"

Snitch nods, but says, "I need to talk to you about what he saw."

Lucifer sighs. "Later," he says, and turns to Skittery, "Don't worry, kid. You'll be fine here. You'll love it."

His words are lyric in the way that only something rehearsed and often repeated can be.

As they go back into the hallway, Skittery mutters to Snitch, "_Lucifer?_"

Snitch shrugs. "It means 'lightbearer'. Don't hold it against him."

They continue down the corridor in the same direction they were going before they entered Lucifer's office. The length of this passage reaffirms Skittery's belief in the spatial impossibility of the building, but he tries not to think about it too much. This day is already brain-hurting enough.

Then, all of a sudden, it becomes stomach-hurting as well.

The hallway begins to curve, and soon it has become just as twisted as Skittery's train of thought. It gives the impression of jerky movement, even when you're still, and Skittery's navigational skills are beginning to roll around inside his head and they're still walking but he can't follow where they are and he's getting nauseous and they _just keep walking_—- no.

Now, they stop.

Now, the passage does not turn.

Now, there is a dead end.

Skittery glances at Snitch, and then back to the blank face of the wall.

Now, there is a door.

The fuck? He resists the urge to ask what the hell just happened.

Snitch turns the brass doorknob and leads Skittery across the threshold. Here is another massive chamber, altogether unlike the entrance hall. The light here is so white it's nearly blue. The walls, too, are plastered with cleanly brightness. If their color could make noise, it'd be screeching like an irate budgie. The room is pretty much bare, except for the hundreds of doors that line its edges.

"Come on," Snitch says, and takes Skittery to one of the doors on the left-hand wall. When they get closer, Skittery sees that a number has been stenciled across the pale bluish door in pure white paint. It's nearly impossible to distinguish, but with a lot of effort, Skittery is able to tell that the first digit is 3.

Skittery stops suddenly before Snitch can open yet another door for him. He leans back against the wall, very carefully keeping his exterior the opposite of his interior: relaxed and casual.

"When are you going to tell me what this place _is_?" He stares Snitch directly in the eye and prays that his fear isn't as obvious as he thinks it is.

"In a minute. Just come in, alright? I would have told you before… before _later, _anyway."

Skittery refuses to notice the defensiveness in Snitch's answer.

"Tell me now," he says.

"No."

"Tell me, or I'm leaving."

"You couldn't if you tried."

"Just fucking watch me." Skittery keeps his face neutral, but it's at the expense of an even tone. His voice cracks halfway through his retort. Snitch pounces on his show of weakness like a cheetah going for the kill.

He touches Skittery's arm and murmurs, "Hey, it's okay. You can trust me."

He slips the door open and directs Skittery inside. Skittery goes.

The room is just as mind-shatteringly white as the antechamber. It's smaller, though, like a dorm room or a monk's cell. There is a single bed against the far wall, a bureau on the right, and a light on the ceiling.

That is all.

"Okay," Snitch says with a sigh, "We can talk."

He takes Skittery's hand and pulls him onto the bed. Skittery wishes there were a chair in the room so he wouldn't have to sit so close to Snitch. It's really not doing wonders for his concentration.

Skittery can't help it. It's been a long day, he's stressed, and he hasn't had any coffee for a twenty-four hour period. Screw self-control.

He leans back against Snitch, just like in the dream.

"Talk," he says, but it comes out sounding a lot less harsh than he intended.

"Okay," Snitch says again, "Okay."

"And no stalling."

Snitch laughs dully. "God, I'm still trying to figure out where to start."

"The beginning, maybe?"

"There is no beginning."

"Just _talk_, Snitch!"

"Alright! Okay. I've known about this place since… well, since before _the incident_." There is no need for him to specify exactly _which _incident.

Skittery doesn't speak. He just lets Snitch keep going.

"They came to me first. I'd been… seeing things. You know what I mean. And… and they tried to get me to join a couple times. But I never did. I should have, because then… but I didn't and you saw what happened."

"Yeah. That was… not fun."

"No shit. I just kind of lost it. They… you know, _Them_… _They_ threatened me. And my family. And _you_." His arm slides around Skittery and he hugs him tightly. "I think I could have taken it if They hadn't threatened _you_, Skitts."

Skittery feels obliged to say something comforting, but before his brain is able to sort out anything even vaguely coherent, the door crashes open.

Enter a tall, ominous man dressed in a conservative black suit and shades.

He's probably French.

* * *

**Crazy long A/N: **Yeah, so, spiacente. I really meant to update on time, I swear. It's just, this chapter hates me. I swear. Also, I was in Maryland and had no computer. It won't happen again… hopefully. However, I do start school in exactly one week, which means a hell of a lot less time to write. Unless of course my teachers are a lot nicer or a lot more oblivious than they were last year.

Skittery's name, in case anyone's wondering, is across between a friend of mine's first name, a different friend's middle name, a bad joke, and a real estate firm. Why yes, I am insane. Thank you for noticing.

Queen of Doom- Updated, pour vous. 

Kid Blink's Dreamer- I may be sadistic, but I love making people speechless.

Madmbutterfly- I'm just assuming that Snitch wears big pants, like my one friend. He "found" the shirts. There was _certainly _no violence involved…

PS Within six months.

PPS But I would never lie to you!

PPPS So _there_!

Ellaeternity- "I love crazy Snitch. Or is he crazy? Is he sane, and the rest of us/them/whoever are crazy?" Yes.

Brunette- Hey, I was just in DC! Well, technically, it was Maryland, but I got lost this one time and ended up in DC…

Volatile.virgin- Ack, formatting. I kind of suck at formatting, so I'm glad you noticed.

Stacy- Hey, if I had waited til after showering to write, this update would be even later. And that's saying something…


End file.
